


your nicest paper cut

by koedeza



Series: apocalypse, you say [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, but i tried to have some brotherly fun too, its mostly sad though, this is kind of sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 11:20:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/koedeza/pseuds/koedeza
Summary: Dean sits on a church pew the next day with a rigid Sam by his side, everything not really processing like he thinks it’s supposed to. He quickly glances down at his brother, sees the new dullness in his eyes and instantly knows it will never go away.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: apocalypse, you say [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048558
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22





	your nicest paper cut

**Author's Note:**

> there is always nothing but tragedy with these two

**1.**

He used to think his life was filled with befores and afters, everything else just minutes ticking by till the end.

Before, when there was the three of them. After, when there were only two. (He’ll learn that there are so many ‘afters’ that the word starts losing meaning.) 

Before, he used to think that his life was simple. After, he wished to god that it was. 

Before, he used to think there was certain beauty in life and death. After, he learned that death was just another one of those wounds that never fully healed.

**-x-**

Their father dies on a Monday. 

The middle school hallway is empty except for probably the most violent scene Dean will ever witness. Blood runs down the metal lockers, gore clings to the shredded metal, everything has been torn apart and ravaged.

Sam and Dean sit pressed against a concrete wall, Dean’s arm impossibly tight around Sam’s neck. They’ve been huddled together for a few minutes, waiting for nothing in particular. (something short of a  _ miracle,  _ is what Dean thinks they need) Little rivulets of thick, black fluid run down the poorly placed linoleum, dripping down the stairs at an even pace.

Green eyes flit around the mess in the hallway, looking for something,  _ anything _ of John’s that can be salvaged or buried. Anything that isn’t intestines. Even then, Dean can’t tell what’s their dad’s and what’s the monsters. 

He supposes it doesn’t quite matter anymore.

**-x-**

Dean sits on a church pew the next day with a rigid Sam by his side, everything not really processing like he thinks it’s supposed to. He quickly glances down at his brother, sees the new dullness in his eyes and instantly knows it will never go away.

A haggard looking priest (one of the only few left in the city) presides over the service, pale and sagging skin jiggling everytime he moves. He coughs often, not bothering to cover his mouth. The altar is a hunk of broken stone that slants, and the only thing that rests on it is a silver ring, commemorating everything that John Winchester was. 

Hunter, always. Father, sometimes. Gone, forever.

**-x-**

When Sam falls asleep at the graveyard, Dean picks him up and carries him on his back. Sam’s tiny still, barely elven, but it will be the last time Dean can carry him like that. On his way out, the priest places a heavy hand on his shoulder, eyes inexplicably dark. 

“From ashes we rise,” The priest looks up at the gray sky, rain already threatening to come down on the city. He looks back at Dean. “And to ashes we must return.” 

  
  


**2.**

The last thing Sam sees his girlfriend do is dance. 

She invites him to have dinner at her apartment in the Upper East Side, some fancy dish he’s never even heard of with ingredients that probably cost more than everything he owns. 

Before Sam leaves the house, Dean hands him five dollars and tells him to buy her something nice, but as soon as he walks into Jessica’s apartment he forgets the money stashed in his pocket. 

Everything in the home is expensive and beautiful, and Sam feels so very out of place with his worn clothing and perpetually bruised face. He struggles to understand how such wealth still exists, how everything can remain so impeccable. It’s an entirely different world and Sam finds it comical how much he  _ doesn’t _ belong. 

After dinner (where Sam stays quiet in front of Jessica’s parents, says nothing about himself except for his favorite subjects in school, says nothing except to compliment Mrs. Moore on the roasted duck, does not mention Dean once except in passing) Sam and Jessica stay in the living room. 

Loiter, would be a better term. 

It’s already dark outside, and Sam knows what lurks in the shadows. He  _ should _ get going. He just doesn't want to. 

They sit at Jessica’s baby grand and Sam plays out something simple, a barely remembered nursery rhyme that is messy and out of tune. Jessica stands up and twirls around the living room, arms swirling through the air. Sam lets out a quiet giggle as he watches her dance, long and crooked fingers gently pressing on the keys. 

He turns back to the keys and focuses on the sound coming out of the piano, enthralled by how even his blunder can sound beautiful on such an instrument. Jessica sits back down next to him, laughing at his expression.

She’s serious suddenly, finger reaching out to run over the messy stitching through Sam’s eyebrow, a thumb hovering over an inflamed scrape on his jaw. “You’re never at school anymore.” She whispers. 

“I’m too smart for that place,” He jokes quietly, entranced by the way her eyes have locked onto him. No one has ever looked at him the way she does. He’s never seen anyone look at  _ anything _ the way Jessica looks at him. 

“Sam, it’s dangerous.” She tries again, but they both know he’s not going to stop. “You don't have to deal with the stuff that’s out there, it’s not you and your brother’s job-” She places a manicured hand on top of his. 

Immediately he turns away from her, acutely aware of how dirty his fingers are compared to the pristine white keys, compared to her own trimmed nails,  _ overwhelmingly _ aware of how much he does not fit into this girl’s life. He stands up, grabs his backpack from its spot on the floor, ignores Jess’s grip on the hem of his shirt, pulls away from her profuse apologies. 

On his way home, the rattle of the subway lulls him to sleep. His infinite exhaustion and a hunt for a Black Annis has him ignoring all her calls all weekend, phone forgotten on the kitchen counter.

When he finally picks up, it’s her father, his voice wrecked unrecognizable with grief.

“She ran after you, we think. It was one of the monsters, we think. It was dark, we don’t know. We don’t know. We don’t know.  _ We don’t know _ .”

Briefly, he thinks of golden hair and big eyes and the smell of clean linen. 

Then nothing.

**-x-**

“ _ Fuck _ you!” Dean spits. “You fucking  _ idiot _ .” 

He stalks across the sand and gravel to where Sam sits on the ground, fuming, furious _ ,  _ worried out of his  _ mind _ . 

Dean blisters with the rage of a dying star. “It’s been almost a week you fucker, I thought you were _dead_!” He stifles his frustration as best as he can then looks down at Sam’s huddled figure. He looks small, sitting like that, small and wrongly vulnerable.

Dean momentarily hates everything, but he keeps his mouth shut, only parting his lips to shove in a cigarette. His hands shake as he reaches for his zippo, eyes peering over the flame to look at Sam.

Sam, who sits on the bank of the East River and swallows back nothing. 

Dean holds the poorly-rolled cigarette out to Sam (charity work, really) who takes it without a second thought, placing it between blue lips and inhaling like he hasn’t in years. Sam chokes on the smoke, eyes watering as he drops the cigarette and slams a fist to his chest. He hacks until he’s practically dry-heaving, coughs until he can finally suck in enough air. 

Except, it’s never enough. 

Coughing quickly turns into quiet crying, then takes its time to morph into awful animal sobs. Dean sits down and grips the back of Sam’s parka, pulls him close and holds him as tight as he can. He murmurs something vaguely comforting, vaguely reprimanding, then turns to humming softly once he’s run out things to say. 

He stares at the abandoned cigarette on the sand, at the gently lapping waves of the river, and waits for Sam to fall asleep.

  
  


**3.**

“Can you imagine,” Sam passes Dean a moldy bread roll, an unopened can of refried beans, and two bent mental spoons. “How tall I’d be if we lived in an ideal world,” 

Dean shoves half the roll in his mouth and swallows without actually chewing. “In an ideal world, I would be taller than you.” 

“You’re twenty-three, you can still grow,” Sam plops next to Dean, spooning the beans into his mouth as fast as he can while still leaving enough for Dean. 

“Someone clearly dropped out of high school, and it wasn’t me,” Dean jeers, a crooked smile threatening to cross his lips. He resits it, knowing if he does his lips will begin to bleed again. 

The summer is unusually hot but they both wear hoodies and thick socks, the cold still seeping into their bones far too easily. Dean lays down, the hot concrete of the rooftop doing nothing to scare away the chill he feels. Sam lays down next to him, closing his eyes and laying perfectly still. 

Dean laughs, leaning back on his elbows. “You tryna photosynthesize or something?” 

Sam opens one eye then closes it, a scowl on his face. “You’re the high school graduate, you tell me.” 

Dean’s elbow connects with Sam’s rib cage and they both groan in pain. There’s not enough fat or muscle to protect them from the collision, only bone on bone. 

“Sorry.” Dean grimaces.

“Whatever,” Sam continues to photosynthesize. 

**4.**

“Someone convinced you that you’re invincible,” Sam says roughly, his concern tangling with annoyance. “You should know better.” 

Then softer: “I thought I taught you better.” 

Dean feels fingers cardinng through his sweat-slicked hair, a small comfort attempting to distract him from the fever that makes him feel like he’s dying, limbs rattling like the breath that keeps getting caught in his throat. He’d cough, if he had the strength. 

Dean stares up at Sam’s eyes from above, his presence like that of a derelict god. His irises are pale and milky, slowly getting duller as the years go on. Those eyes are no window to the soul. 

“The landlady brought milk.” Sam says quietly, a hand fidgeting with the blanket draped over Dean. “She said it was for me. She brought me bacon too. For when you get better. I still don’t know where she got either of those things.” 

Dean forces himself to smile, not because he wants to but because he should. 

It’s all he has to offer. 


End file.
